


Wanted

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Online Dating, POV Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24141262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: When Mycroft cancels their dinner meeting yet again, Greg ignores his inner voice and makes a bad decision. When things start to go south, he has to hope someone is going to be able to save him.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 32
Kudos: 225
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Deciding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lyricoloratura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyricoloratura/gifts).



> This story takes a turn into a slightly darker place than I have been heading of late. I've tagged squicky/triggering bits, so please read and make sure you take care of yourself. Thanks so much to Lyri for your trust in me to write this - I hope very much that you enjoy it. <3

When his phone beeped, Greg barely noticed. He was up to his neck in this case, and the paperwork was practically drowning him. The bright screen of his phone didn’t even register until he paused to check who signed the last chain of evidence form. One glance, the smallest fraction of the sender’s name, and his heart sank. There was only one reason…but he’d have to look to be sure…

The anger started building before he’d even unlocked the screen, so sure was Greg of what the message would say. Sure enough, it read exactly as he expected. The anger rolled up through him, and though he initially gritted his teeth, Greg finally swore to himself, then reconsidered the situation and swore aloud.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. It wasn’t enough so he added, “Fuck! Jesus fucking Christ, why do I even…”

He stopped himself, taking a deep breath and standing up, needing to not be sitting down for some reason.

Closing his eyes, pressing the fingers of one hand into his desk to ground himself, Greg tried to remember the techniques John told him might work when he was angry at something one of the Holmes’ had done. Of all the people who’d tried to give him advice about controlling his anger, he figured John had more experience than anyone. How he lived with Sherlock Greg would never know, and more than that, he’d gone and fallen for the infuriating git.

So clearly, he had some anger management techniques under his belt.

Drawing another deep breath, concentrating on the feel of the air rushing into his nose, holding it for three seconds and releasing, Greg felt the white hot rage slow. He repeated the breathing, and then again, his anger blowing away as he exhaled. The visualisation was a different idea, but it tied in nicely with John’s things. Greg continued until he felt as calm as he thought he was going to get. He opened his eyes, blinking at the light, vaguely wondering how long it had been since his phone had beeped.

Comparing his clock to the timestamp, only a few moments.

_I must cancel tonight. Anthea will be in touch to reschedule. – MH_

As the words filtered through again, Greg pulled in a deep breath, holding it until he began to see spots before his eyes. It blew out explosively, and he did his best to envisage the ball of rage shatter with its force. It worked, kind of; he could still feel some of the anger, but it wasn’t controlling him anymore.

He ran his tongue over his front teeth, sucking in at the same time, feeling the pull against his soft palate as he thought. The most frustrating thing about it all was that no matter how angry it made him, Mycroft always had a good excuse. Saving the bloody world, Greg told himself with more bitterness than he would admit to. And when it came to things he wouldn’t admit to, he was a pro. Because although they only ever met in discreet restaurants, and only ever to talk about Sherlock, in the deepest reaches of Greg’s mind, these meetings were dates. They were certainly closer than anything else he could claim under the same title, and for all the stated intention to talk only about Sherlock, the conversation meandered into personal territory with ease.

Each time Greg learned a little more about Mycroft, and no matter how small the detail, he was fascinated. They were tiny, like breadcrumbs to tempt him towards understanding. There was no denying it to himself anymore; he looked forward to their meetings more than anything else in his sadly lacking social calendar.

They met every two weeks. Every two weeks, without fail - except for the last three meetings. Sure, they often shifted a day or two, depending on the state of the world (Mycroft) and central London (Greg), but the last three meetings had been pushed back so far they’d never, in fact, eventuated. And Greg was frustrated, and disappointed.

And lonely.

The worst part was how hamstrung he felt. There was no way to let Mycroft know how disappointed he was without starting a conversation about why the cancellation had affected him so. He wished he could tell Mycroft without being sat down like a tardy school boy and having the ways of the world explained to him. Or worse, there would be no conversation as Mycroft deduced the reason and carefully pulled away without giving Greg a chance to say…whatever it was he would say. Not that he knew what that would be.

 _No problem,_ Greg typed with gritted teeth. His thumb hovered over the keypad again as he considered anything else he could add without giving too much of himself away. He scrolled up to their last conversations, mouth quirking to see what they’d each said.

_Might we push tomorrow’s plans back to next week? – MH_

_Of course. Let me know what day works for you. – Greg_

_+++_

_Hey Mycroft, what day this week should I send my team home on time? – Greg_

_Perhaps next Monday might work. – Mycroft_

_Sure. Same place and time? – Greg_

_+++_

_Are we still on for tonight? Where and when? – Greg_

_Not this evening. I will be in touch. – Mycroft_

_No worries. – Greg_

_+++_

_Hi Mycroft, haven’t heard from you for a while. Might be tempting fate but things are quiet right now if you want to grab dinner tomorrow. – Greg_

_I have no other commitments. – Mycroft_

_Sure. Same place as last time? 8? – Greg_

_Certainly. – Mycroft_

_+++_

_I must cancel tonight. Anthea will be in touch to reschedule. – MH_

Seeing their conversations all at once, Greg felt a flush of hot embarrassment course through him. Christ, could he seem any more desperate? He’d reached out every single time, the false joviality barely covering how eager he was to see Mycroft. The only responses he’d received had been perfunctory; giving information, ‘regretting’ having to cancel. Greg’s mind had added the quotation marks, but he couldn’t help it. ‘Mycroft’ and ‘regret’ were not really concepts that went together in his mind.

The response he’d typed waited – send or delete?

_No problem._

With a rush of impatience, Greg pressed send. Mycroft would get these two words and not another, he told himself. He was done with this. Sherlock was fine now, and Greg mentally congratulated John on his new role as ‘Wrangler of Sherlock and Official Liaison to His Brother, The Twat Known As Mycroft’. Granted it was a long title, but Greg didn’t care.

He was done.

While his blood was still simmering Greg blocked the number he’d had saved as ‘Mycroft’. If he was going to be done with this, he was going to be _done._ He could feel the restlessness of frustration coursing through his body now, and with it the certainty that sleep would be a long time coming tonight. Most of his team had already left, but there was always more work to be done, especially with a caseload like his team’s. Well now that he had so much time on his hands, Greg thought with more of the bitterness he didn’t like to acknowledge, he could at least get started on the paperwork for this case they were hoping to wrap up in the next couple of days.

If nothing else, it would keep Mycroft Holmes out of his head.

+++

Greg rolled his shoulder, wincing. He hadn’t intended to pull an all-nighter, but the fire in his belly would keep him awake no matter where he was. Just another thing on the list of stuff he wouldn’t admit, he told himself at one point. It was almost 2AM, right about the time he really should go home, if he was going to at all. When they were working a case and the office was still active at this hour, Greg often conferred with Sally. Long experience told him the call to go home for a few hours’ sleep had to come before 2AM or it wasn’t worth bothering.

Tonight, with nobody around, Greg grabbed his coffee cup and filled it again, snaffling a couple of the charity chocolate bars in the tiny kitchen as well. He’d missed dinner after all, and the sugar would keep him going when – if – the roiling emotion waned.

As Greg waited for the coffee machine to do its thing, he opened one of the chocolate bars and stared moodily at the wall opposite as he chewed. He knew exactly what was making him so angry, and knowing what it was only made him angrier.

It was shame that was gnawing at his insides, wrapped up hot and sharp with the related emotions. Regret and self-pity warred with embarrassment and despair. How did he get to this point? Desperate enough to try and flirt with Mycroft Holmes, if his lame attempts at organising a semi-professional dinner with the man could be considered flirting. He knew he restrained himself well in person, acutely aware of how skilfully Mycroft read body language. But texting was something else, and although they only ever arranged their dinners, Greg always tried for a cheery tone, rationalising that Mycroft probably didn’t see a lot of ‘cheery’ in his day. Besides, he didn’t want to be a burden.

The fact that he evidently _was_ a burden made Greg cringe. _Why else would Mycroft keep putting their meetings off?_ Mycroft could find time when his brother was in need, that much was clear. Their meetings had a purpose – Sherlock – and now that the detective had someone to keep an eye on him, plus he was far more stable than Greg had ever seen, well, Greg was clearly not enough of a priority for Mycroft to keep finding time in his diary.

Which was fine, obviously.

Fine.

With a nod, Greg poured himself coffee, adding plenty of sugar and milk to cover the inevitably-burned taste. He took what was left of his chocolate bars and returned to his desk, decision made. He was in it for the night. Hopefully he’d get enough done to warrant going home at a reasonable time tomorrow. Or tonight, really.

+++

Twenty two hours later, Greg collapsed into bed. It was pushing midnight, which wasn’t bad given how much of a shit storm had descended that day. His paperwork had gotten them a decent head start, but results came back earlier than they anticipated and they’d had to move fast. His experience came to the fore, thank Christ, as picking up the new suspect turned into the chase he’d hoped it wouldn’t but suspected it might. A couple of injured civilians meant the newly reduced paperwork pile was threatening to collapse on his desk again, and Greg took great pleasure in ensuring the charges were pressed as soon as possible. At least it meant their suspect would be safely behind bars and he’d have a hope at getting his ducks in a row for the murder change as well as these new assault charges.

Tired as he was, Greg couldn’t sleep. The pillow was wrong, his sheets too hot and uncomfortable. Restless, he scrolled through his phone, looking at all the apps his brother had added last time he’d made it up to visit the family.

His thumb hesitated over the Tindr icon before he clicked it. His nephew set up his profile, something Greg endured only with the understanding that any photos uploaded would be appropriate. It had sat there untouched, notifications disabled until now.

The screen was unfamiliar and it took Greg a second to realise there were messages waiting for him. He’d matched with some people, apparently. Didn’t he have to swipe somewhere for that to happen? It wouldn’t surprise him if Andrew had done a bit of that on his behalf. Curiosity overtook him and he clicked through to his inbox.

Five messages.

Greg opened each, reading the opening messages with caution. Two were blunt, though he had to check what DTF might mean; he deleted those. Two others were several weeks old, which would be awkward to say the least; one didn’t even have a proper profile picture.

Which left one.

Thomas sent his message four days ago. A reasonable period for Greg to wait, he thought. Was that how dating worked? Not that he was looking to date, he told himself. Ignoring the voice that suggested he was lonely, or looking to forget Mycroft, Greg looked at Thomas’ profile.

He was a bodybuilder, apparently a little taller than Greg and good looking in a slightly smug kind of way. His hair was annoyingly perfect, and nature had been helped along with those teeth, surely. Not the sort Greg would usually go for, but fatigue and unacknowledged loneliness combined to make Greg message him.

_[Greg]: Hey Thomas, how are you?_

To his surprise, the return icon started spinning immediately.

_[Thomas]: Well, thanks. What are you up to?_

Greg shrugged. Seemed like a standard start to a conversation.

_[Greg]: Just home from work. Long day._

He stretched his shoulder as the reply icon spun again. Thomas obviously had their conversation open.

_[Thomas]: Ah. You need to relax. ;)_

Greg blinked. Jeez, were they heading there already?

_[Greg]: I need to sleep. Half day tomorrow if I’m lucky._

_[Thomas]: Sleeping is good. It’s not the only way to feel good, though._

Greg almost rolled his eyes. Jesus, this guy wasn’t wasting any time. Regardless of how desperate he might be, Greg wasn’t going to play this stupid word game.

_[Greg]: True. But tonight it’s definitely top priority._

_[Thomas]: What about tomorrow?_

Greg stared at the words, trying to decide if this was a good idea or not. His rational mind was fairly clear on the subject. _Probably best to meet somewhere in public._

_[Greg]: Tomorrow I’ll need to eat, if you wanted to meet for dinner._

_[Thomas]: I’m a great cook. I could make us something. Quieter here than in a restaurant._

Greg stared. He’d been thinking they could meet at a restaurant. There really wasn’t a good way to judge character over an app, no matter how much professional experience he might have doing it. Meeting in person was the only reliable way, and his brain was very much in agreement.

_This guy sounds quite keen._

Jesus, was he really considering ignoring the safety guidelines he knew he should follow just because there was the tiniest bit of interest from some anonymous guy? A flash of an eyebrow delicately raised over amused grey eyes sent hot shame firing through him. Recklessness coursed through his body as Greg typed a message.

_[Greg]: Sounds good. 7 okay?_

The response came immediately.

_[Thomas]: Great. 24 Charing Cross Street, North London. Looking forward to it. ;)_

Greg stared at the reply, immediately wondering if it was a good idea or not. _Not_ , his brain told him firmly, but he pushed it away. Even this possibility of a flirty night out was more than he’d had in a long time. More than he’d ever had from…but he wasn’t going to compare it. He’d get a bit of company, and from the sound of it, Thomas was keen for a leg over if Greg was interested. God knew it was long enough since that happened.

With a shrug, Greg tossed his phone on his bedside table. He’d have to be back at work in the morning, but at least he’d have something to look forward to. It wasn’t what he really wanted but it was something.

+++

Sleep took its sweet time coming, and Greg’s dreams were restless. The alarm was insistent and far too soon. If they hadn’t a limited time to process this guy from yesterday, he’d probably call in. When he sat on the edge of the bed to check his phone as he always did, the open window from Tindr brought back the conversation from the night before.

_Shit._

What had he agreed to? Jesus. With the benefit of a few hours of sleep he could see that this guy was really angling for a private meeting. Greg stared at his screen, wondering if he should back out. This guy could be a weirdo, and every workshop he’d attended about keeping yourself safe said you should meet for the first time in a public place. His heart was pumping hard, the dreadful part of him that wanted to be _wanted_ fighting his rational brain.

As his shallow breathing made him a bit lightheaded, a text message came in. Before Greg could stop himself, he was reading.

_I have a space in my schedule for dinner this evening. Shall we say 8pm? - Mycroft_

Greg frowned and answered without thinking.

_I blocked your number. And I have plans tonight._

He blocked this new number and returned to the Tindr page for another look at Thomas. If he had a surname, Greg would be able to do a basic rundown at work, see what the deal was. But it was first names only, so he was out of luck.

Still feeling a little uneasy, Greg set himself a reminder for later that day. He didn’t want to come straight from work. Much as he’d told Thomas there was only a half day ahead of him, he knew himself well enough to know that he’d just keep trolling through if there wasn’t something to remind him to go home.

As he wondered if he was being paranoid – surely this guy was just looking for a shag, which Greg wasn’t entirely against – the screen changed.

_Incoming call – Sally Donovan._

“Hi Sal,” Greg said, automatically reaching for a clean shirt.

“You’d better get down here,” she said. It didn’t surprise Greg that she was in before him; she was open about her ambitions to move up the ladder, and hard work wasn’t something he was going to punish.

“Right, what’s happening?” Greg asked, putting her on speaker so he could start getting dressed.

“One of the civilians from last night died, so we’re looking at a manslaughter charge, plus the reckless endangerment we didn’t add could be on the table too,” Sally said.

Greg swore as he fumbled with his buttons.

“Exactly,” she said. “We’ve gotta figure out who did what and who we’re gonna charge and we should do it now.”

“Half an hour,” Greg said. “Get all the statements out and we’ll go through them again.”

“Already done,” Sally said. “Bring good coffee and we’ll call it even.”

Greg nodded and hung up, adrenalin already pumping through him. He forgot about Thomas as his work brain took over and he was out the door in fifteen minutes flat.


	2. Realising

Greg frowned, reaching for his phone without looking. He was trying to decide if they should get a start on this paperwork now or leave it until tomorrow, and he didn’t really need the distraction of a message right now.

_Reminder – Thomas, 7pm._

_Shit._

Greg glanced at the clock. 6pm. They’d been working solidly all day, compiling evidence and going over statements, trying to decide if they’d be willing to take a plea in exchange for lesser charges and testimony against the big shots. Right now his brain was close to fried. They probably all needed a break.

“Alright,” he said, slipping his phone back in his pocket. “Let’s leave this until tomorrow.”

He saw a few grimaces at the idea of working on a Sunday. “Come on, it was always going to happen,” he said with a grimace. “Overtime or time in lieu, plus remember what Sunday looks like here?”

“Breakfast on the Boss!” someone called and there was a smattering of laughter and applause. Greg had tried to overturn the title, protesting that it sounded like they were either throwing food at him or using him as a plate, but the name had stuck. He’d have to remember to call the food truck later and ask them to come in. Providing food and decent coffee was the best way he knew to keep his team motivated on a weekend, and in his opinion it was worth every penny.

“Right, someone lock up,” Greg said, grabbing his jacket. He nodded at Sally – they both knew he meant her – and left before she could ask where he was going. He could give her the low down on whatever happened that night in the morning. Maybe. Right now he had just enough time to get home, shower and shave, and get over to North London to meet with Thomas.

Again, he pushed away the unease. He was a grown man, dammit, and he could make his own choices.

+++

7.03pm.

Greg would have loved a cigarette right now. That was a marker of how nervous he was, which was ridiculous. Why was he so nervous? It was just a date. With someone he barely knew. In their house. And nobody knew he was here.

On a whim, feeling like an idiot, Greg sent a screen shot of their conversation and Thomas’ profile to his work email. At least there would be some kind of trail, he told himself morbidly.

Hesitating, he also texted the screenshot to Sally, then set his ringer to silent. _Ask me about this tomorrow._ It was literally inviting a conversation he’d hoped to avoid, but he felt a bit better than someone would know where he was tonight.

_Jesus. Get a hold of yourself, Lestrade._

Greg slipped his phone into the pocket of his coat. With a deep breath, he knocked on the glossy black front door. It opened almost immediately, pilfering the few seconds he’d wanted to compose himself.

“Hi, Greg,” Thomas said, smiling easily.

“Hi, good to meet you,” Greg replied, stepping inside.

Thomas looked exactly as he did in the photo, which eased Greg’s discomfort quite a bit. There was one hurdle overcome, at least. He radiated a coolness that might be a shade too much, but they were in a small space and Greg knew nerves could come across as over-confidence if someone was trying too hard.

“Come in,” Thomas said, one hand on the small of Greg’s back to guide him through the narrow hall to the living area at the back of the flat. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Thanks for cooking,” Greg said. “I meant to bring a bottle of wine but I got caught up at work.”

Thomas nodded, still smiling, and Greg noticed his fingers brushed the side of his neck as he helped Greg shrug his coat off. That was twice he’d touched Greg in the few seconds they’d known each other. It wasn’t a red alert, but Greg could still feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

_This guy is a bit much._

Ignoring his intuition was rarely a good idea, but Greg told himself he shouldn’t be so quick to judge. He smiled and took a deep breath to relax, sitting in one of the seats opposite the kitchen bench. Thomas moved to the other side, eyes still watching Greg closely.

“What have you made?”

“Nothing too fancy,” Thomas replied smoothly. “Pasta arabbiatta. And don’t worry about the wine, I have plenty.” A carefully tanned hand passed Greg a glass – overfilled, he noticed, and ready for him on the bench. Thomas picked up his own glass and offered a toast. “To meeting new people.”

Greg smiled, raising the glass to his lips. He took a sip of the wine, but Thomas’ eyes didn’t move from his face and he found the intense scrutiny unnerving. A tiny sip was enough for the moment – and did he see a flash of something in Thomas’ eyes? His discomfort eased up a notch.

“This is nice,” Greg said, putting his glass down. “I didn’t eat a lot today. I’d better not drink too much.”

“Oh don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” Thomas smirked with heavier implication than Greg thought was even possible.

An awkward silence descended until Greg asked, “So what did you do today?”

Thomas gave himself a little shake, his smile dimming for a second before he answered. “I was up early, headed to the gym first, then out for brunch with a friend.”

“Do you have a regular café you go to?” Greg asked, trying to keep the conversation moving. Thomas hadn’t asked him anything about himself, which made Greg wonder if he actually just wanted a fuck – in which case he should have bloody said so – or was genuinely that self-involved.

“Well, I say brunch,” Thomas said with a self-satisfied smile. “He had the sausage, if you know what I mean.” He winked, stopping just short of openly leering at Greg. “We were trying out some new toys.”

Greg blinked, trying to process the change of direction. “Right,” he said.

_Jesus._

When Thomas passed him the wine glass again, he accepted and drank automatically, his brain working overtime. Clearly, sex was a big thing for Thomas. He was starting to wonder what the point was in cooking dinner if they were going to get into this kind of conversation so soon.

“And after brunch?” Greg asked, refusing to be drawn into the tacky conversation.

“Another gym session, then I came home and started preparing for tonight,” Thomas said. “I showered very thoroughly.”

Another wink, and Greg’s unease shot up another notch. He took another sip of wine to cover the pause in the conversation. Thomas was still watching him, eyes bright with anticipation, and Greg had the sudden realisation he probably shouldn’t be drinking alcohol. Or anything, his brain supplied as things started to slip sideways a little. That wasn’t right…

“Good to hear,” Greg managed. He shouldn’t feel this drunk, not after a couple of sips of wine. This was not good. He placed the wine glass, still mostly full, on the bench, but it was closer than he thought it would be and the glass hit the marble with a thunk.

“Maybe we should eat,” Greg said. “It smells great.”

“Thanks,” Thomas said, his eyes still on Greg in what now felt like an assessing way. “You look tired. Why don’t we come and sit on the sofa for a bit?” He grinned, taking Greg’s hand and pulling him up.

The room spun a little, and Greg reached for the bench, landing on Thomas’ shoulder instead as he tried to steady himself.

“I can give you a massage, help you relax,” Thomas was saying.

Greg nodded. “Can I just…I need your bathroom,” he said, concentrating on shaping the words properly. “First.”

Thomas looked at him for a long moment, eyes narrowing a bit. “Sure,” he said finally. “Let me show you.”

It was tucked under the stairs, and Greg was grateful for the lock, tiny and pathetic as it was. He sat on the closed toilet seat, trying to clear his head.

_One thought at a time._

He breathed deeply.

_You’re feeling weird._

His fingers weren’t quite steady. Definitely weird.

_Possibly drugged._

Most likely explanation. Greg hadn’t done anything unusual in the last day or so that might account for his symptoms. Glancing around the bathroom, he amended that.

_Nothing except this._

This one unusual thing.

_This guy isn’t quite right._

One unusual, monumentally stupid thing.

Greg blinked hard. _Fuck_. He needed to get out of here. He fumbled for his phone, then swore as he remembered it was in his coat pocket. He couldn’t even bolt for it; his keys were in his coat, too, and his wallet, and they were all hanging back in the kitchen.

_Right._

He needed a plan.

_All you’ve touched is the wine._

Whatever he’d taken, it must be in the wine. He remembered how the glass had been waiting for him, pre-poured on the bench.

_No more wine, no matter what._

That part was easy enough.

_Try and get off a message to someone._

Greg swallowed. That part might be tricky. It would depend on a bunch of things, including whether or not Thomas was suspicious of him and how quickly he could get a message out. He wasn’t entirely sure how it would go; he’d have to wing it to some extent.

_And if all else fails, fight like hell._

Fuck. This was not good. He didn’t like where his brain was heading, all the possible terrible things people could do to each other coming unhelpfully to the fore. At least he’d had the forethought to text Sally, and email himself. It would be cold comfort if things went badly, and no matter what he’d be berating himself for a long time.

_Stop stalling._

Greg splashed some water on his face, took a deep breath, and unlocked the door.

It was oddly like going in to interview a witness. There was a level of adrenalin pumping through him, but Greg knew he needed to stay calm and alert.

_Easier said than done._

“Thanks,” he said when he’d walked back into the living space. Thomas was waiting for him on the sofa, both wine glasses on the coffee table, and Greg was grateful for the small distance.

_Don’t ask permission._

He reached into the pocket of his coat, flicking his thumb to open the screen of his phone before he’d even pulled it out. He knew he might only have one shot at this, and when his messages opened, he was relieved to see the last conversation come up.

_Sally Donovan_

_Attachment [image]_

_Ask me about this tomorrow._

_7.04pm_

“Won’t be a sec,” he said to Thomas as he typed a new message.

_Keep it short._

_Sally Donovan_

_999_

_7.28pm_

Greg immediately locked his screen and put his phone back in the coat pocket. “Forgot to feed the cat,” he said with what he hoped was a casual grin. “My neighbour’ll do it for me.”

“How nice,” Thomas said. He’d stood up and moved closer in the few seconds Greg was concentrating on his phone. He was standing closer than Greg was strictly comfortable with, and he was holding Greg’s wine glass. “Here. Let’s sit down, shall we?”

Greg agreed. It was taking all his concentration to walk without the room slipping sideways. He just hoped he looked calm. And that Sally was close. They sat on the sofa, Greg leaving his wine glass on the coffee table. Thomas eased down beside him, putting his wine down too.

_He’s given up on the wine._

_That’s probably not great._

Greg felt another shot of adrenalin fighting the muzziness in his head.

“So,” Thomas said, resting his hand much higher on Greg’s thigh than he found comfortable, “the great thing about pasta is that we can reheat it if we get…distracted.”

“Really, well I’m pretty hungry,” Greg said.

His head was swirling, and the feel of Thomas’ hand sliding higher up his leg was oddly remote. When Thomas eased his palm over the front of Greg’s jeans he jumped, the pressure too much against his soft penis.

_Fuck._

“Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you,” Thomas purred as Greg tugged at the hand now massaging the front of his jeans far harder than was comfortable.

“No,” Greg managed, grunting with the effort of trying to edge away. His head was spinning now, but he could feel Thomas’ hot breath on his neck.

“I didn’t realise you were into that kind of play, but I’m sure we can make it work,” Thomas said through a predatory grin.

His weight was pressing Greg into the sofa cushions, and one thought was pounding through Greg’s head as he struggled against the much stronger body.

_Come on Sally._

The pounding of that thought combined with the speed of his heartbeat to take over his consciousness so when the weight suddenly lifted off him, Greg froze, staring up. He could see a set of features but they didn’t make any sense. The eyes were vaguely familiar but the hair was wrong…For a second he thought, _Jesus there are two of them._

“Take him to my flat,” a voice came from the other side, a familiar voice with a fine edge of steel Greg had not heard in a long time. He’d know that voice anywhere.

“Mycroft?” Greg whispered, his head lolling to the side as he searched for the face to match. It was blurry, and the drugs must have still be affecting him because he was sure he saw concern and fear in those grey eyes as they raked over him.

“Are you hurt?” Mycroft asked. The steel was gone, the words soft and quiet, for his ears alone as he leaned over the back of the sofa.

“Drugged. The wine,” Greg slurred. He should be more embarrassed, but he could feel himself sliding away now. Now that Mycroft was here he didn’t have to hold on so tight.

As though he could see Greg’s thoughts, Mycroft spoke quietly.

“You can relax,” he murmured. “My team will escort you to my flat. I will join you directly.”

Greg tried to nod, but he felt his head dipping forward instead, his chin landing on his chest. As he drifted away, arms picked him up and carried him somewhere…

+++

Greg blinked. His head felt wrong. Too big, or too small, or…something. He swallowed, realising the state of his head wasn’t the main problem. His stomach was making its displeasure very clear, and any second…

“Here you are,” a voice said.

A hand lifted under his shoulder, rolling him onto his side so he could vomit over the edge of the bed. It was painful, retching up the emptiness of his stomach, and when the waves subsided, Greg found himself panting weakly, strings of saliva still hanging from his lips.

“There you go,” the voice said.

A hand wiped his mouth and he was eased over onto his back. Greg closed his eyes, wincing as he swallowed the foul taste in his mouth. His eyes were closed and he didn’t recognise the voice but he didn’t really care, either; now that his stomach was no longer roiling, sleep was pulling at him again.

“Sleep if you need to,” the voice said. “You’re safe here.”

Greg wanted to nod but he was almost gone already.

+++

When he rose towards the world again, Greg braced in case his stomach felt bad again, but it was fine, though empty. His mouth was dry and tasted revolting; he tried to swallowed but couldn’t.

“Have some water,” a voice said.

It wasn’t the same voice but there was the same kindly tone, and a straw was tapping at his lower lip, encouraging him to drink. The water was cool and he sucked eagerly at the straw.

“Do you think you can open your eyes for me?” the voice asked.

Greg considered the question, and realised he probably could. He lifted his lids slowly, blinking at the light. It was bright, though when his eyes adjusted he realised it was fairly dim in the quiet room. Jesus, this was either the poshest hospital in the world or someone’s private home. Someone’s very posh private home, he thought, staring at the beautiful wallpaper. He couldn’t figure out if he knew anyone that would have a place like this. It felt like he should be able to come up with a name, but it wasn’t quite close enough. Probably doesn’t matter, he told himself as the thought drifted away.

“Welcome back to the world,” the voice said, and Greg turned his head. The face smiling at him was unfamiliar, but the smile was kind. Some kind of private nurse, he assumed. How nice.

“You’ve been asleep for a long time,” she said. She sounded like someone’s mum, Greg thought, pushing himself to sit up more. She helped, raising the end of the bed.

_Jesus, I’m in a proper hospital bed. In someone’s home._

_And I don’t have any pants on._

_Huh._

“What day is it?” Greg asked. That kind of this was usually important.

“Monday,” she said. She lifted the small watch pinned to her blouse. “4.18pm.”

“On Monday?” Greg asked, frowning. That sounded like a long time after he last remembered anything. Wasn’t that…Saturday?

“Yes,” the nurse replied. “I understand you were drugged. It’s not uncommon for people to react in different ways.”

“But that means I was asleep for…” Greg couldn’t figure it out. “Ages?”

“Something like that,” the nurse agreed. “You’ve had a line in to provide you with fluids, but I’m guessing you’re hungry?”

“Yeah,” Greg said, realising it was true as she said it. “Yeah. Please.”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she said, standing up and patting his arm. “I’ll take your catheter out, too.”

Greg nodded, dimly realising why he wasn’t wearing any pants. He wasn’t looking forward to that, although at least it meant he hadn’t wet the bed while he’d been here. Sighing, he laid back against his pillows as memories trickled back along with a bit more general awareness of the world. He winced at his own stupidity. Why couldn’t he have been drugged with one of those ones that knocked out your memory? At least then he wouldn’t have to remember what an idiot he’d been. Thank God he’d messaged Sally, even if she’d chew him out when she saw him next. He didn’t even care. She could do it every day for a year if she wanted to.

He thought he’d be more upset, actually. It was more like he could see what he should be feeling but none of it really stuck. His brain wasn’t working properly enough to deal with emotions yet. When the door opened again, Greg looked up, expecting the nurse again.

It was someone bearing a tray, but not the nurse.

It was Mycroft.

Of course, Greg thought, blinking as he moved across the room. That was the name he couldn’t quite grasp earlier. And besides, with the way his luck was going, it made sense that Mycroft would be here to witness the consequence of his spectacularly bad decision making.

He thought he’d be more embarrassed, actually.

“The nurse indicated you were awake,” Mycroft said quietly. “You are permitted eat everything here and she’ll be back in half an hour as discussed.”

Greg nodded. He mentally thanked the nurse for her discretion. “Right. Thanks.”

Mycroft placed the tray down. Recognising the items was a strangely nostalgic experience. It was exactly like Greg remembered from when he had his tonsils out. A cube of red jelly, some kind of custardy stuff with cream, and a cup of orange juice.

“How are you feeling?” Mycroft asked.

Greg looked up at him, standing awkwardly beside the bed. Greg remembered his own stupidity again, and what had led him to it.

How angry he’d been.

How disappointed, and frustrated.

It didn’t really matter, now.

Those emotions felt a thousand years ago. When he was connected to himself.

“Fine,” Greg said.

He examined himself and wondered if it was true. He didn’t really feel anything at the moment. Well, he was a bit hungry. And still tired, somehow, and his brain was slow. But everything else was kind of blank. There were momentary flashes – embarrassment as he recognised Mycroft, amusement at the meal – but they were superficial and fleeting. He assumed there’d be some kind of deep reaction at some point, but right now he was okay enough.

Mycroft hovered, as though he wasn’t sure if he should stay or not.

“I presume you would like to know where you are?” he asked finally.

“I know,” Greg said through a mouthful of jelly. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, so Greg said, “I’m at your place. Private nurse.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. He opened his mouth as though to speak, then closed it again. He looked at Greg, a strange kind of regret coming over his face before he finally did say something. “Please let the nurse know if there is anything you need.”

Greg nodded. He could feel that Mycroft wanted some kind of deep and meaningful conversation, but he couldn’t bring his mind to concentrate on it. Everything was becoming soft around the edges again. He watched Mycroft leave, eyes avoiding his as he closed the door carefully behind him.

The nurse returned as promised, completing the unpleasant task and helping Greg to sit up, then stand and walk unsteadily to the bathroom, the borrowed pyjamas he was now wearing brushing unfamiliarly against his skin. He brushed his teeth, which was wonderful, ignoring himself in the mirror before tottering back to bed on the arm of the nurse.

“You go back to sleep if you like,” the nurse said with a smile. “Your body needs to get rid of that nasty stuff.”

Greg nodded, already beginning to feel himself pulled down towards sleep.


	3. Accepting

_It was black, heavy and somehow more oppressive than anything._

_It pressed him into the earth, which gave slowly, reaching out to embrace him._

_He was never going to get out of here._

_Never, and it was his own fault._

_A sneering laugh echoed, rejecting his desperate cries and doing nothing as he thrashed desperately against the mass delivering him inexorably to the depths of the earth._

_He would be buried here, trapped without a single person to mourn his disappearance…_

+++  
“It’s all right, you’re safe…”

The words were less reassuring than they should be, Greg thought dimly, still fighting against whatever was holding him down. He was strong enough now, feeling it start to give as he pushed, his lungs burning as he gasped, railing against something solid.

“Gregory. Gregory!”

It wasn’t the use of his name that made him pause, though nobody ever called him Gregory except…no, it was the voice. A familiar timbre, thought the anxiety in it was new.

_M…M…Myycroft…_

“You are safe,” the same voice murmured. The thread of anxiety was still there, but the person was fighting it. It was familiar, and separate from the scene in which he was trapped. It triggered concepts of safety and warmth in him, and Greg stopped fighting, drawing a deep ragged breath. His eyes were still clenched closed, but he tried to take in what was around him as the scene from his dream ebbed away.

There was a hand on his shoulder. It was solid and real, and he raised his own, desperately gripping the fingers he found there, grounding himself to reality.

“You are tangled in your sheets,” the voice said, still quiet but calmer now. “I’m going to straighten you out, if you’ll relax.”

Greg felt himself whimper as the hand below his started to try and ease away. Instead the fingers pressed into his shoulder, remaining where they were as another hand tugged at his bindings. He could feel them loosening and shifted his hips where they were trapped. Finally, he was free.

“You’re free,” the voice said again, “you’re safe here, Gregory.” There was a pause before it asked, “Do you think you can open your eyes for me?”

Greg’s brain was working much more clearly now than last time he was asked this question, and he already recognised the voice and felt the embarrassment he should always have associated with the voice and this situation.

_Mycroft._

Another deep breath, and Greg let his hand slip off his shoulder, relived when the other hand did the same. He didn’t think he could meet Mycroft’s eyes while holding his hand, in bed…it was far too much, especially when you added in the events that had led him here.

_Jesus, I’m never going to get over this._

Opening his eyes this time, there was no bright light against which he needed to adjust. The room was a study in greys. A dim light in the corner was enough to see the shape of things without preventing sleep.

_Someone brought in a night light?_

Greg blinked, looking over. Mycroft was sitting beside the bed – or a Mycroft shaped shadow, at least.

“Do…do you think we could have a bit more light?” Greg asked.

A switch clicked almost immediately and muted lamps illuminated the room more clearly. It must be the middle of the night, Greg thought; there was no light coming in behind the blinds and though Mycroft was awake, his face looked…rumpled.

 _Rumpled_?

Why had he noticed that?

The light illuminated the rest of Mycroft more clearly too, and Greg blinked. Definitely the middle of the night, he thought again.

_Mycroft is wearing pyjamas._

“I woke you,” Greg said, feeling heat flood his cheeks. Jesus, as if he couldn’t get more embarrassed. He’d been bloody rescued after making the stupidest decision of his life, whisked away to Mycroft’s private flat, had a conversation while he still had a bloody catheter in, and now his nightmare had woken Mycroft in the middle of the night.

“You did,” Mycroft said. “The nurse was here, but,” he paused, and the dim light wasn’t enough to let Greg know for sure if he was blushing or not, “I was sleeping next door.”

“Next door?” Greg asked. “Right.”

The flat probably wasn’t that big, he told himself. Bedrooms were usually next to each other. Didn’t mean anything. “Sorry about that, I’ll try not to…”

“No,” Mycroft interrupted, “it’s fine.”

“Jesus,” Greg said, the conversation with Mycroft suddenly washed over with the recollection of his nightmare. “Jesus, I was back…”

He didn’t even think, bringing his knees up to his chest and hugging them tight as he started shaking. What the fuck had he been thinking, going to that random guy’s house? Drinking wine he hadn’t seen poured? What the fuck was _wrong_ with him? Greg tried to concentrate on his breathing, but his heart was pounding hard and he couldn’t stop the gasping as he fought to push it away. His eyes squeezed closed again.

_I almost…_

_If Sally hadn’t…_

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice sounded concerned and very far away.

It was a shock to Greg when a hand landed on his shoulder, and his eyes flew open. He turned to see Mycroft standing beside him, eyes worried, hand still on his shoulder. Greg closed his eyes again, bringing his hand up to anchor Mycroft’s hand to his shoulder once more. He had questions – Christ, did he have questions – but right now he needed to make sure his heart didn’t beat out of his chest.

It felt like it took forever; Greg’s muscles were aching from the tremors when he finally started to feel himself calm down. He was drenched in sweat and his throat was sore from the harsh breathing he couldn’t quite control.

“Mycroft,” he whispered. The hand on his shoulder hadn’t moved the whole time, but he needed to hear it.

_Tell me you’re here._

“I am here,” Mycroft replied as though reading his mind.

Greg drew another breath and opened his eyes. It took a lot of effort to raise his head, but he needed to see.

“Why were you there?”

The question could have been ambiguous, of course, but Greg could see that Mycroft knew exactly what he meant.

He hesitated for a moment. “May I sit down?” he asked, indicting the chair beside Greg’s bed.

“Yeah,” Greg whispered.

Mycroft did so, both of them releasing their hands at the same time. Greg wanted to move, but he couldn’t imagine himself feeling more vulnerable than he already did, so he stayed as he was, arms wrapped around his knees like a small child.

He could see Mycroft testing words, carefully choosing those he would say.

“I regretted cancelling our…appointment,” he said first. “As I have so often recently.”

Greg swallowed. Whatever Mycroft was going to say, he’d jumped right into baldly honest. Okay, then. They were clearly going there.

“Our conversations no longer primarily concern my brother,” Mycroft said. “I have enjoyed the shift in dynamic, however I’ve not been entirely sure…” he trailed off, eyes uncertain as they met Greg’s.

“Yeah,” Greg said, ignoring the sudden butterflies in his stomach, “but why were you _there?_ ”

Mycroft cleared his throat, a slight frown appearing between his eyebrows. “I had tried to contact you that morning, but you made it clear you were not interested. I must admit I reverted to less…noble means of contacting you.”

“You hacked my phone,” Greg said blankly. He had no idea how he felt about that. For anyone else he’d be ropable, but for some reason it didn’t surprise him when it was Mycroft. And given the outcome, it was hardly something he could get angry about. Well, he could, but not until the end of the story.

“I did,” Mycroft said, face colouring. “Well, to be more accurate, I asked a colleague to do so.” He shrugged. “I asked them to tell me where I might find you that evening.”

“Why?” Greg asked.

“I felt it was a lesser invasion of your privacy if I only had access to that piece of information,” Mycroft admitted. “It is a fine line, I will admit, and not one clearly defined.”

Greg blinked. “You were going to crash my date?”

“No,” Mycroft said immediately. “I only wished to speak with you. I could not be sure if you genuinely did have plans or…”

“Or if I was avoiding you?” Greg asked. This was a weird conversation. If he was avoiding Mycroft, surely Mycroft could just have him kidnapped or something?

Mycroft nodded.

“But you were at...you were there,” Greg said. “You actually did crash my date.” He screwed up his courage to make his main point again. “You must have been very close.”

Mycroft tilted his head in a ‘kind of’ gesture. “My colleague began his task earlier in the day,” he said. “While I had asked him only to ascertain if you did in fact have plans, he brought me information that,” his face definitely coloured this time, “indicated you might have made…specific plans. With an individual.”

“Jesus,” Greg muttered. His brain was still reeling from the panic of earlier, and now he was trying to figure out how to respond to Mycroft as well. “So, you realised I’d made a date. So what was the plan, to just knock on the door or something?”

Mycroft’s eyes were full of apology, something Greg never thought he’d see.

“No,” he said, and now his voice was quieter but with something more confident. “My colleague anticipated my next request and ran a background check on the information we were able to collect from the dating site. We have access to perhaps more data than most police.”

“Of course you do,” Greg said. He could see where this was going.

“The individual with whom you made plans,” Mycroft said, “while never having been formally charged, has a number of complaints against him from several men. There have been varied allegations, but most include claims he administers drugs without their knowledge, engages in sexual activity without consent, and has been known to dabble in blackmail, should his partner’s preferences not be public knowledge.”

“Jesus,” Greg muttered again. This guy is basically a rapist, he thought with a shudder. Why didn’t I trust my instincts?

“I spent considerable time deciding on the best course of action,” Mycroft admitted. “My colleague continued to monitor your communications. We were there when you arrived, and when you emailed yourself and DC Donovan information about your plans,” Mycroft paused, looking down at his hands.

“I knew it was a bad idea,” Greg whispered. Now that they were talking about this, he could hardly keep it back. It was mortifying, but his mouth just kept making sounds. “But I couldn’t…I dunno. Would have felt like an idiot, if he’d been alright.”

Mycroft nodded. “We were debating the wisdom of interrupting your evening when your second message to DC Donovan was intercepted,” he said. “At which point the debate became moot and we entered the residence by force.”

Greg nodded, swallowing hard. “Well I’m glad you were there,” he whispered again. The tears were threatening again, and he looked down, embarrassed he was so emotional.

“My team were effective,” Mycroft agreed without conceit. “Their video footage along with your statement and the content of your wine glass will make compelling evidence.”

“No,” Greg said, still shaking and now desperate for the contact they’d shared earlier, “I’m glad _you_ were there.”

“Me?” Mycroft asked with a start. “I was hardly effective, Gregory, I-”

He stopped himself, fear filling his eyes when he glanced at Greg.

“You what?” Greg asked.

“I was too concerned for your welfare to be helpful in either the arrest or attending to your medical needs,” he continued.

Greg blinked. Without speaking he reached out, one hand dropping to the blanket beside him. They both gripped hard when Mycroft’s hand tentatively rested in his, and confusion replaced the fear.

“You kept cancelling our dinners,” Greg said. “Wasn’t sure why.” He shrugged, oddly disconnected from the words now that they fell from his lips so easily. “My nephew set up the Tindr profile, and it had been a long week.” He looked down, frowning, wondering how to find the right words. “Wanted to feel…I dunno, wanted, I guess.”

Greg closed his eyes, feeling the tears eek out as the last of his defences slid sideways. Whether it was the lingering effect of the drugs or the late night or the fact that Mycroft cared enough to come and save him, he couldn’t pretend any longer. He was sitting in a hospital bed, for fuck’s sake, in borrowed pyjamas, in Mycroft’s house, the sweat from his panic attack still wet on his neck.

There was nothing behind which he could hide any longer.

Greg expected Mycroft to speak, but instead they sat in silence for a long time, their hands still joined on Greg’s blanket. The sharp self-recrimination was smoothing slightly and Greg was beginning to think he’d get over this eventually when he heard the shift of fabric that meant Mycroft had moved.

“If I might make a suggestion,” Mycroft said carefully.

Greg opened his eyes, not bothering to turn his head as he looked at Mycroft. Far from the distant, polite regret he anticipated, Mycroft’s eyes were soft and affectionate. Wait, that couldn’t be right, could it? Greg looked at him, frowning, searching for more meaning.

“Sure,” he managed.

“I make this offer without expectation,” Mycroft said, his voice quiet and words careful, and this time the fear was masked a little, but Greg still glimpsed the edges of it. “But if you would like to shower, I could provide you with clean pyjamas and a more comfortable bed.” The mask slipped as he added, “And company. If…that was something you wanted. To ensure you sleep well.”

“I don’t want…don’t pity me, Mycroft,” Greg managed. He’d never get through a night of…whatever it was Mycroft was offering – sharing a bed? Being held all night to stave off another nightmare? Not if it was just pity.

_Please don’t tell me that’s all this is._

_I can’t be that pathetic._

“I do not pity you,” Mycroft said. “If anything I feel responsible for this whole mess.”

“You?” Greg asked. “How the hell is this all your fault?” He swallowed hard. “If you hadn’t been there…”

“If I had the courage to speak with you instead of retreating, you would not have taken the course of action you did,” Mycroft blurted. “As it stands, this is not the circumstance in which I would wish to have such a conversation.”

Greg was staring at Mycroft. He was only half following, but his instinct told him to chase this conversation.

“What?” he whispered. “Please tell me.”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “Though we have been meeting for a considerable period of time, ostensibly to discuss my brother, I have found myself increasingly interested in a more personal relationship,” he admitted, closing his eyes before finishing.

“With me?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft whispered.

“Oh,” Greg said. He drew a deep breath again, trying to stave off yet another wave of tears. This all could have been avoided if they’d just bloody talked to each other. The deep breath didn’t work, and he found himself shaking again, his traitorous mind taking him back to the moment he realised Thomas was too powerful for him…

“I think…” Greg tried, through chattering teeth, “I think…yes please.” He tried to laugh but it collapsed into more sobs. This time, he felt Mycroft’s arm come around him and he leaned into it, the solid body and warmth helping pull him through as his body shook.

When it finally eased, he felt as weak as a newborn lamb.

“Come,” Mycroft murmured. At some point he’d leaned in, his arms embracing Greg as he shook, but now he pulled the blankets back and encouraged Greg to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. “Please, allow me to help you.”

Greg nodded. His body was weak and he felt drained. Having someone make decisions for him was…good. That person being Mycroft was like a dream, and he happily sank himself into it, allowing Mycroft to support him as they walked slowly across soft carpet. Presumably to a bathroom, Greg thought blankly as the carpet gave way to hard floors.

It was a bathroom. An ensuite to his bedroom, he realised; the toothbrush he’d used earlier was still on the sink. The idea of a shower was suddenly wonderful. He wanted to be clean. Not only of the sweat now drying on his skin, but of Thomas’ touch, making his skin squirm against the memory.

_Mycroft can make it go away._

“I’ll give you a moment,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg nodded, using the loo and brushing his teeth again. He was exhausted again when he opened the door, sinking down to sit on the edge of the bath as Mycroft came back in. He was holding clean pyjamas and a pair of towels, and his eyes were uncertain as they met Greg’s.

“I can draw you a bath if you’d prefer,” he murmured.

Greg shook his head. He still felt close to tears, and when he stood and Mycroft stepped closer, he simply allowed himself to be drawn into another hug. The unassuming contact was more than he’d had with anyone lately, he thought. This was what he wanted more than anything. Well, not this exactly, but the essence of it, the quiet security of knowing his presence was wanted rather than tolerated.

Without speaking, Greg eased out of the embrace, reaching for his buttons. They were too much, and Mycroft immediately reached up to help, but stilled when he realised what Greg was doing.

“Can you help me shower?” Greg asked, too tired to be tactful. He was still looking down, but when Mycroft’s fingers continued down the row of buttons he assumed it was a yes. Mycroft was careful easing the fabric over his shoulders, and he laid the jacket over the edge of the bath, laying his own beside it a moment later.

He turned on the shower next, and the billows of steam seemed to roll out and embrace Greg. When Mycroft turned back Greg met his eyes, not looking for anything, simply trusting this man who was taking such good care of him right now when he needed it so much.

Mycroft held his gaze, eyes grave for a heartbeat until he hooked his fingers into his pyjamas and underwear, dropping them both to the floor. He stepped forward and Greg lifted his arms from his sides, silently inviting Mycroft to do the same for him. Mycroft did, taking his biceps to steady him as he stepped out of the puddle of fabric, eyes still cradling him.

It was the most intimate and least sexual moment of Greg’s life. They were standing together naked in the bathroom, but they’d barely touched. Heck, they hadn’t even kissed, yet Greg felt more seen than he had in a long time. Perhaps ever.

Mycroft’s hands slid down his arms, wrapping his fingers around Greg’s. He guided them towards the shower, reaching out to check the temperature of the water before the stepped underneath. It was hot, almost too much so; Greg felt Mycroft’s fingers tighten around his as the water took them in. He felt like it washed through him as well, drawing out the first bits of his panic. He closed his eyes, the warmth easing under his skin. Mycroft’s hands eased away from his, and Greg let his arms hang by his sides.

“Soap?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes please,” Greg replied. He wasn’t exactly sure what Mycroft was offering but it didn’t really matter.

“Turn around,” Mycroft said, one hand encouraging him to turn.

Greg turned, opening his eyes enough to see the tiles before him. He rested his hands, the cool against his palms a jolt to his system. Something soft settled on his shoulder and he could feel suds coasting down his chest as fingers squeezed the washcloth before it drifted across his shoulder. Greg dropped his head as the slow wind down his arm soothed him. Mycroft was silent, his free hand resting on Greg’s waist as he worked. He wasn’t fast, but he didn’t stop or lift up, the continuous motion somehow helping. There was lavender or something in the soap, adding to the steam as Greg drew it into his lungs.

Mycroft worked steadily, and Greg was grateful he didn’t hesitate or stop as he finished Greg’s lower back. He wanted to be clean and he wanted Mycroft to be the one to do it. Across his arse and down his legs without comment; it made Greg feel like he was valued. Like all of him was valued, as Mycroft’s fingers on his hips encouraged him to turn around. He should have been self-conscious one part of his brain told him, with Mycroft kneeling at his feet, but he didn’t. Mycroft was focussing on his feet, then legs, then thighs; Greg wondered what he would do as he crept higher, but he wasn’t worried.

Mycroft’s hand swept across from one hip to another, low enough to trail suds into the rough hair there. The edge of the cloth dragged past his cock, but otherwise Mycroft ignored it, shifting higher in each sweep up his torso. Greg dropped his head back against the wall, closing his eyes again. Mycroft paused a moment, and Greg opened his eyes. He’d switched to a new cloth, and his smile was soft.

“Close your eyes?” Mycroft asked.

The cloth was gentle on his face, washing any remnants of tears or sweat from his skin, following the curves of his jaw and brow. The lavender was strong now, and as Mycroft guided him forward to wash the soap off his skin, Greg felt peace come over him. Whatever happened with Mycroft now, he was through the first few hours. When he was guided to lean back, Greg blinked the water from his eyes. Mycroft was before him, the water cascading down his shoulders as he looked at Greg, eyes calm.

“Thank you,” Greg said, the words ringing louder off the tiles than he’d intended.

Mycroft nodded. He reached past to turn off the taps, then out of the shower to take one of the towels. Greg stepped forward at his beckoning, out of the wet tiles and onto a mat. He couldn’t remember Mycroft setting it out; it didn’t matter, of course. The towel was rough where it slid across Greg’s shoulders, but Mycroft’s hands were gentle as he rubbed the water from Greg’s skin.

Still, neither spoke. Words seemed rather superfluous, like they would break the spell Mycroft had quietly woven around them. Mycroft helped Greg dress, easing the pyjamas softly across his limbs, sealing Mycroft’s touch into his skin, erasing anything from earlier.

When Greg was dressed, Mycroft wrapped a towel around his own waist and looked at him. He held the gaze for a few seconds before breaking the silence.

“You may return to the guest room if you wish,” Mycroft said. “However the offer to join me in my bed still stands.”

Greg blinked. It wasn’t even a decision, in his mind. He looked down and reached for Mycroft. Uncertainty was clear in Mycroft’s eyes as they met Greg’s. When Greg squeezed his fingers, a simple encouragement, the message must have been clear because Mycroft nodded a little, turning towards the door.

Mycroft led the way into his bedroom. The blankets were thrown roughly back, and Greg stared at them. They were so at odds with the precision of the rest of the room. Clearly Mycroft had jumped out of bed without stopping earlier. Probably as soon as he heard Greg’s distress.

_Priorities…_

Once they’d settled in bed, the blankets arranged carefully around Greg’s shoulders by gentle fingers, Greg could feel Mycroft’s words in the vibrations through his chest.

“I can arrange whatever you will need to heal,” Mycroft said, the words sweeping over Greg’s head. “Medical, of course, but if you’d like to…speak with someone, or if you’d prefer to move to a flat in a more secure building…”

Greg nodded. “This is helping,” he said quietly. “I know it’s not…everything. But it’s a start.”

“Please tell me you’ll take up my offer,” Mycroft said. He hesitated. “Regardless of…whatever other decisions are made, the offer stands. Indefinitely.”

Greg felt his heart heave. He shifted until he could see Mycroft, their heads sharing the same pillow, faces almost touching. He could see the wide shape of Mycroft’s eyes in the light cast through the open door.

“Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate it.” He reached up to cup Mycroft’s face. “I appreciate you.”

Mycroft’s eyes fluttered a little bit closed at his touch. “I am sorry I didn’t make my appreciation clear earlier,” he said quietly.

“Don’t,” Greg said. “My choices are not your fault.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft started, but Greg stopped him.

“Let’s just say we both have regrets,” he suggested, bracing for the tears he was sure would come. To his surprise, the swell was minor in comparison to earlier. The emotion was still there but it didn’t overwhelm him. Mycroft had washed away the rawest edge and now it didn’t cut him as it had.

Mycroft nodded, eyes flicking down to Greg’s mouth and back, but he didn’t lean in as Greg would usually expect. Greg knew without thinking that Mycroft wouldn’t make a move. He wouldn’t want to take advantage of the situation, and given the events of the last few days, it made complete sense.

Carefully, Greg eased closer. “I wanted to believe they were dates, even if we did start out talking about your brother,” he admitted into the still air between them. “I wanted you to want me,” he said quietly.

Mycroft blinked at him, and Greg wondered what he would say in response.

“I do,” Mycroft said simply.

_He does…_

“Me too,” Greg replied. “I want this. Us.”

Mycroft drew a shaky breath, and Greg leaned forward, encouraging him, stopping only a whisper away. It was agony to wait, feeling Mycroft’s breath against his skin until the chasm was crossed and Mycroft’s lips settled against his. It was quiet and slow, comfort in a single touch, and with a fleeting sigh, Greg began to let go of his regret. Oddly enough, the lyrics from a song came quietly to him – something his niece had been singing at Christmas. It was a song of promise, and though he wasn’t entirely sure he remembered it perfectly, the longing and relief of realising what was important felt exactly right.

_If all was wrong, there’s more I gained, for it led me here, to you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg is remembering lyrics of 'From Now On', from the movie 'The Greatest Showman'. He's misremembered some of the words, it should be 'If all was lost/there's more I gained/'cause it led me back/to you'.


End file.
